by Ae-ran Kim
Why do parents always look like parents, no matter how young they are?
This wasn’t a phenomenon unique to my parents; I’d thought the same thing while watching TV a few days ago during dinner. We’d randomly caught a reality show focusing on a teenage couple raising a newborn in a small room. The young father, who was my age, had stolen some formula from a convenience store, and their moral dilemma had been extensively written about. People were very sympathetic to their situation. They looked like any other teenagers, talked just like kids my age, wore clothes kids my age wore, and liked fast food and the same music. Their youthful faces showed their age. But their eyes were somehow different, steeped in fatigue and sadness and pride that people responsible for another living being tended to have. How should that be described?
I thought some more before typing.
It’s indescribable other than to say: It’s the face of a parent.
A parent was an adult because they were a parent. Being an adult didn’t make you a parent. I studied my own young parents in the picture, looking at their youthful eyes, their youthful necks, and their youthful hair. They seemed delinquent, somehow, and painfully young. I reached out from one world to another, carefully stroking their heads with a finger.
* * *
That isn’t to say that there aren’t opposite examples, like Little Grandpa Jang’s family. Little Grandpa Jang lived with his ninety-year-old father, who scolded him incessantly. Whenever Little Grandpa Jang managed to escape the yelling and step outside his house, he looked as defeated and forlorn as a seven-year-old.
If I spotted Little Grandpa Jang sitting sadly under the cement walls, I went up to him. “Grandpa, you got in trouble again?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. He just got mad at me.”
“Are you upset, Grandpa?”
“Yeah. It’s okay when he yells at me at home, but I just wish he wouldn’t do that in front of the kids.” By “kids,” he was referring to the old men at the seniors’ center who were younger than him. He often grumbled about his father, but his complaints betrayed a hint of pleasure that he still had someone in his life who treated him like a child.
I continued to write.
Why does a child always look like a child, no matter how old he is?
A sudden thought flashed through my head. Maybe that was why people had children.
To relive the life they don’t remember.
That made sense. Nobody remembered their early years. You couldn’t remember anything that happened to you from before you were three or four, so you wanted to experience it through your child. You were retracing those years, saying to yourself, Oh, I must have nursed like that. Oh, I guess I held my head up on my own at this age. Oh, I must have looked at my mom like that. You were able to see yourself in a way you were unable to before. You became a child again by becoming a parent. That had to be why people had children. What did my parents see through my experience, then? Me, who started to age rapidly at the age of two? That led me to yet another question.
Why did God make me the way I am?
I haven’t been able to figure that one out yet.
5
My dad’s store was in town, about a thirty-minute bus ride from my mom’s family home. In town, people wore nice clothes and spoke eloquently, especially compared to the farmers and the fishermen who populated the region. People didn’t call the town by name; everyone called it “the Market.” The townspeople were called “Market people” and when anyone mentioned they had to go to town they said, “I have to go to the Market.”
It was a small town with just a few governmental offices, cafés, a brewery, a piano studio, and a public bath, but the Market people felt superior to everyone else, even if they didn’t flaunt it. It was the pitiful superiority that a small-town hick felt over a village hick, the way a frog looked down on a tadpole.
My parents were both familiar with the Market. My mom’s high school was there, as was the café where my dad learned about her pregnancy. My grandfather tasked his fourth son, who was hanging around after completing his mandatory military service, to go help my dad, to pitch in until things at the store took off, and at the same time learn about running a business.
The store opening went smoothly. The first order of business for my dad was to send a tracksuit to his former roommate, whom he had treated terribly. My other uncles, who were working in town already, had helped with getting quotes and finding customers. The store was in a small but bustling area that people referred to as Rodeo Drive, where the folks with some money and style hung out. My dad liked that his Nike store was clean and neat. It had to be, to align with the demands and guidelines from Nike headquarters. My mom liked having suddenly become the boss’s wife, and both my parents were amazed that they were surrounded by so many expensive things they had never even dreamed of owning. What really shocked them was that there were people—many people—who bought these things without a second thought. My mom went to the Market often with the excuse that she was checking up on the store, handing me over to my grandmother. At the store, she nagged my dad, who silently wished she would leave, or met up with Sumi to gossip.
She didn’t have anything to talk about other than parenthood or housework, but Sumi listened attentively without getting bored. With considerable pride, my mom bestowed on her friend the gift of a pink Nike tracksuit.
“Whoa, you must be hormonal. Are we really such good friends?”
My mom giggled, pleased with her friend’s reaction.
“You’re good?” Sumi asked.
“No, not at all.”
“What now?”
“I didn’t know it was so hard to keep house.”
“Idiot, you got married without knowing that?”
“I didn’t realize it was this bad.” My mom stared solemnly at the cup on the table between them. “Just look at what we’re drinking right now. We make barley tea at home. That’s what Daesu likes. Think about how many steps I have to go through just to get a cup of tea on the table. I have to boil the water, cool it, wash the kettle, clean the water jug, pour the tea in the jug, then put that in the fridge. And that won’t last more than two days! I never thought about any of this before. Life is so hard sometimes.”
“Huh. I guess you’re right. I never think about that when I drink tea.”
“Right? So imagine how tedious it is to cook something and clean the house. Sumi, don’t you dare complain to your mom about what she makes for dinner, okay? And you should help her out, too.”
“Um, now you sound like my homeroom teacher.”
“Tell me about it. If I knew it was going to be like this, I would have had way more fun before getting married.”
Sumi grinned at her friend, with whom she had studied and sung karaoke not that long ago. “How’s Areum?”
“Good. He’s a bit sensitive but he’s doing good. Did you know that babies don’t know that their arm is theirs?”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It takes them a while to figure it out. Areum would be lying down, staring at his own arm and waving it around, like it was the coolest thing in the world. Isn’t that funny? He kept doing that, like he was trying to convince himself it was his.”
“They should teach us stuff like that in home ec instead of dumb things.”
“Right? I should teach it.”
“I wish. Then you could give me good grades.” Sumi leaned forward to slurp her chocolate milkshake through her straw, creating a dimple in her cheek. “So is he talking?”
“Just some simple words.”
“That’s good. I know you were worried.”
“Yeah, though he just calls any guy Daddy. He calls his uncles Daddy, and also the guy who lives next door.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, but apparently they’re all like that at his age. Daesu went on a delivery to a daycare and all the babies swarmed around, calling him Daddy. He said it was th
e scariest thing ever.”
The two friends chatted for another hour. At one point, Sumi asked, “Mira, I was wondering…”
“Yeah?”
“Why did you fall for Daesu?”
“Huh? Where’s this coming from?”
“You never liked anyone. And so many boys followed you around. Remember when that guy from the agricultural high school took a bunch of pills because he was heartsick over you? But with Daesu…”
My mom smiled in embarrassment. “It’s just … we started talking, and…”
“Talking?”
“I mean, I didn’t really like him at first. But then we got to talking. About grades, our families, things like that. At one point he said he didn’t want to go back to school.”
“He didn’t?”
“He said he didn’t want to be anyone. Or do anything.”
Sumi’s eyes bulged. “You liked that about him?”
“What?”
“You liked a guy who didn’t want to be anyone or do anything? It doesn’t make sense.”
My mom looked down. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because that was exactly how I felt.”
Sumi tried to take my mom’s side. “That’s not true. You weren’t like that. There were things you wanted to do.”
“Yeah, but that’s how I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Um … let’s see. Okay, let me explain it this way. Remember when you were little? Did you ever hide in a closet, wondering if your parents would look for you?”
“Sure.”
“That was what I was doing with myself.”
Sumi looked puzzled.
“At first I was hiding for fun. But then I couldn’t find myself. I felt weird and anxious and depressed and just hid because I figured it would be really awkward if I stopped hiding.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Hey, don’t talk back to an adult.”
“Since when are you an adult?”
“Since I got married. But seriously. I didn’t fall in love with Daesu because he didn’t have dreams. I fell in love with him because he pretended not to have any dreams. I thought he was like me—like he was hiding, just like I was.”
Sumi was silent.
“Anyway, I don’t know. Whatever.” My mom grew embarrassed.
“What else?” Sumi asked impishly. “What else did you like about him?”
My mom looked up at the ceiling and blinked. “I don’t know … Well, okay, once, when Daesu said he didn’t want to go back to school, I asked him why. He said there was too much hazing. From the teachers, the upperclassmen, everyone. He was beaten for being late, he was beaten for frowning, he was beaten for being silly, he was beaten for being arrogant, he was beaten for being useless. They just kicked him around a lot. And one day he lashed out at a referee during a competition, and he got really beaten up by some upperclassmen. They were pissed that his behavior would put them at a disadvantage at competitions. You know how they only hit jocks where it doesn’t show? Apparently, that day he ended up bruised and bleeding. All over his face.”
“Oh my god.”
“So anyway he limped back to his dorm, and he found his roommate with his pants down. His roommate was a few years younger, but was a really fast runner, he won medals at national competitions and stuff.”
“And?”
“So this kid really liked Daesu and followed him around all the time. He would give presents to Daesu, treats that he didn’t share with anyone else. You know how nice Daesu can be, so he was just nice to him. That was how they became roommates. But that day, when he got there after being beaten up, that kid is jacking off without even locking the door. Daesu flipped out. He just beat the shit out of him. The kid couldn’t do anything. He was pummeled with his pants down around his ankles.”
Sumi drew in a shocked breath.
“So Daesu didn’t want to go back. I think it was the first time he told anyone that story. His voice was calm but he looked like he was going to cry.”
“And then what?”
“What do you mean?”
“What did you do?”
My mom hesitated. “What do you mean, what did I do? I slept with him, obviously.”
“Oh…”
6
Writing a story was harder than I thought it would be. At first I had simply wanted to record events of the past, but I realized I wanted to write a stylish and engaging tale. Writing demanded decisions and choices at every moment. Was I making the right ones? The story kept sputtering. I felt terrified and dejected, much like a lone penguin abandoned at the North Pole, far from home. Each time that happened, I went to my parents, asking them for stories of their youth.
“Oh, so you wanted to be a Tae Kwon Do practitioner!” I said to Dad.
“No.”
“What? Isn’t that why you went to that high school?”
“No.”
“Then what did you want to be?”
“I didn’t know. That’s why I went to that school.”
“But you were good at Tae Kwon Do.”
“Yeah, I was. But honestly, the only thing I really liked about Tae Kwon Do was the uniform.”
“How can you hate something you’re so good at?”
“That happens. A lot of people feel that way. I had a friend who was at the top of our class in math but he hated it.”
“Oh.”
“And—I mean, this is a little weird for me to say to you—there are a lot of people in the world who are devoted to their parents, but don’t really like them. So don’t you ever try to be good to me. Okay?”
“Dad.”
“Yeah?”
“What kind of advice is that?”
“What?”
“Can’t you tell me something wise?”
“Areum.”
“Yes?”
“Just because you’re the elderly one doesn’t mean you can look down on your own father. Especially a father who went to an athletic high school. We jocks are very sensitive to being dismissed.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“And do you know who’s even more sensitive than people who went to an athletic high school?”
“Who?”
“People who were kicked out of an athletic high school.”
* * *
It was a little easier with Mom, who never stopped talking. My mom’s stories were peppered with adverbs and adjectives and exclamations. She didn’t bypass any detail, no matter how trivial, sharing everything from her youth, from the fashion to the popular music to school uniform styles to the interior of a café and its menu. She also included all of her judgments about every person in her stories. In fact, it took nearly a day to hear the life stories of her five brothers. Her stories were that long-winded. But if I thought they could be even more lively and detailed, I made a point of asking for what I needed.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“So, um … how did you … and Dad…”
“How did we meet?”
“No, you already told me about that. I mean…”
“What?”
I couldn’t figure out how to phrase it. I managed to ask in a roundabout way. “How did you two decide to have me?”
Mom, who had been talking nonstop, paused. “What? You really want to know?”
I nodded.
“Okay, well, let me tell you this. When I was huge with you, one of your uncles said to your grandmother, ‘Mother, I don’t understand how she could go do something nobody’s ever taught her.’ Meaning me.”
“And?”
“And your grandmother says, ‘That’s something even an idiot can do without being taught.’”
Mortified, I laughed extra loud.
“Satisfied? I’m going to make dinner.”
“But Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Was Dad your first love, too?”
Mom was silent.
“Mom?”
“I said, Was Dad your first love?”
“Um, of course, kiddo. Now go away. I’m busy.”
* * *
Their stories didn’t really fit together. They remembered things a little bit differently and the way they interpreted their memories was slightly off. My mom said Daesu pursued her while my dad insisted that Mira flirted with him first. They both remembered how she sang for him for the first time and how they kissed for the first time, but their memories were painted in ways more favorable to themselves. As for me, I wasn’t on anyone’s side. I was on the side of the story. Later, when it was really necessary, I could take both of their sides.
“Then what happened?” I urged Dad.
“What?”
“Mom. Did she sing?”
“Okay, so…”
“Wait!”
“What now?”
“Can you tell me the rest tomorrow? I’m so exhausted. My eyes are tired.”
“Come on, buddy. This is the best part of the story.”
I massaged my shoulders and sighed. “Dad, you’ll see what it’s like when you get old.”
* * *
When I asked a question, my dad gave short replies that stayed true to the event itself, while my mom went on and on, describing her take on it. Their stories overlapped and drifted apart and crumpled together inside me, shimmering like gases on the cusp of explosion in outer space. I was going to make something out of all this. Even if nobody, not even I, knew what that might be. As I listened to them, I looked forward to having heard all the stories, but at the same time was anxious about that moment when they had nothing left to tell. And? Really? And then what? Why? Wow! I egged them on. They say that when you’re old you prefer talking to listening, but it was clear from the way I bugged my parents that I was still a boy.
7
Everything in the hospital was always the same. I underwent tests in the order they were scheduled and dealt with predictable disappointments. I listened to the doctors say, “It’s gotten worse” or “Let’s keep monitoring” or “I can’t guarantee it but…” I walked down the long corridors carpeted with curiosity and distaste, sympathy and deep sighs. Resigned to the fact that my body owned me, I endured the look of relief on other patients’ faces when they saw me, someone sicker than them. I listened to the light chatter and laughter between two healthy people. I stared at the prescription form scrawled with meaningless words as if it were a love letter.